Worth
by Rosa Cotton
Summary: Where it is possible a fairy godmother may be mistaken, a princess may grow up a little, and a prince may lose his fairy tale.


Disclaimer: This story gives me no profit but fun. No copyright infringement is intended.

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Worth

**I. **

It was you who brought her here. The horses of the princess's tiny carriage were guided by your invisible hand through the dark snowy night as she slept, eyelashes still wet with tears, wrapped in her ugly skin of fur. Unknowingly her steps were directed by you, to the berry bushes and streams along the way. You provided a sense of hope when at last the castle appeared in the distance, and work was given to her in the kitchen.

Here the princess would be safe, in this new kingdom filled with spring and light, her happy ending waiting for her. And you breathed a sigh of relief.

Sometime later a festival was arranged to welcome home the young prince long absent on a quest. Sweeping up the cinders, the princess listened to the excited babble. There would be balls, jousting, feasts, and plays. Under her ugly cloak her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and a dreamy smile curved her mouth. And you smiled with her, your worries over her pale face, bearing the servants' jeers in silence, and disturbed slumbers diminishing.

What a splendor that first ball was! From high up on a balcony the princess watched with awe and, perhaps, a little melancholy, remembering days past. You noticed her gaze followed the young prince as he claimed young ladies in dance after dance. Dressed in a rich green suit with silver trim, he was the handsomest of the company with his red gold hair and piercing dark eyes. In faith, you admitted to yourself he was the most handsome man you had ever seen, though you had travelled far in the world over the centuries. As you observed the look in the princess's eyes gradually turn from awe to admiration to longing, you approved.

You were lost in your thoughts the following morning while the princess begged leave from the cook to be allowed to go upstairs to see that night's dance, when a pair of heavy boots hit her in the back of the head. You – and all the others – looked to discover the prince advancing into the kitchen.

"What!" he cried with a dark scowl. "A dirty creature like you, see the dance? I forbid it!" And he then reprimanded the cook harshly for not making breakfast to his satisfaction before storming out.

Astonished, you watched the servants resume their tasks as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "Tis how the prince's temper runs," was all that the cook said in passing to the princess who gripped her broom with white, trembling hands, a haunted expression in her eyes.

Troubled, you frowned. The prince's unexpected display was like déjà via to you, the princess's great-grandfather flashing through your memory. And later, as the princess entered the ball with still trembling hands (without the anticipation and hope you envisioned) you wondered,_ Is this worth it?_

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**II.**

"What is your name, oh, mysterious beauty?" a deep voice asks softly in my ear.

I nearly jump, my eyes open, and the fragile bubble of peace and safety surrounding me scatters into a thousand pieces. The blessed darkness is replaced by the blazing, blinding brightness of the ballroom. Straightening, my eyes travel from my clasped hand to the shiny buttons on the front of the velvet jacket and up to, finally, meet the dark eyes of the prince. He watches me intensely, which seems to heighten the stern lines around his mouth. I swallow.

"Lady Marian," I reply, surprised at the childhood name slipping from my mouth. Why hide my name, when I freely had told the shepherd boy, Curdie? Yet I do not correct myself.

The prince frowns and my heart leaps to my throat. Slowly he takes in my silver starlight gown, unbound hair, and face clean of cinders. Feeling like a deer cornered by a hunter, my gaze falls to his shoulder.

"A lady…surely not! One with beauty such as yours can only be a princess," he proclaimed.

Charming flattery it is. I ought to say something clever in return. But I only can manage a nervous laugh. Here I am dancing with the prince as I had longed for last night, and now…it is not what I imagined. The lingering ache in my head, the harsh words, I am unable to so easily forget though the prince is even more handsome up close and has been nothing but charming (except when my hand is sought by another for a dance).

The music dies, ending our latest dance, and I step back thankfully. Dropping into a deep curtsey I murmur, "Good evening, Your Highness."

I have not fully risen before my hand, released moments before, is recaptured in a pressing grasp.

"'Good evening?'" the prince repeats quizzically, bringing his face close, eyes boring into mine.

I manage a nod, hoping my nervousness does not show in my face and the pounding of my heart goes unheard. "I must go."

His expression grows into a displeased frown and his eyes turn stormy. "No! You cannot leave me yet. I will not allow it! The night is—"

"Your Highness!" a young noble hails the prince.

"What is it?" he growls, turning away from me, his grip loosening on my hand.

I take advantage of the interruption, and flee back to the darkness of my tiny room, the heat of the large kitchen, and the dirty roughness of my ugly fur skin.

Dawn finds me weary, confused. My steps are shadowed by memories…dark harsh eyes, light compassionate ones.

I put my request again to Cook, silently wishing, hoping, _praying_. (It is hard to give up one's childhood dream – _happily ever after_.) Before he can do more than open his mouth, hands reach around me and rip my broom from my grasp. Rushing around the kitchen, loud threats rain down on my back along with the blows. And later, as I reach to take one of the walnuts my godmother had given me (pushing away yet again those memories of the journey which now seem so pleasant and hopeful, and ignoring the pain in my back) a question brushes my mind: _Is it worth it?_

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**III.**

The prince stole an inspecting glance at his appearance in one of the ballroom's full length mirrors. Yes, he cut a dashing, commanding figure. And if he peered close enough there was indeed a new, unusual light in his eyes and smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. His grandmother had of course pointed it out to him first.

"Who is she?" had been her demand in her bossy fashion.

He did not know who she was, but he knew she was the one, the shy little thing so new to his court. And tonight, the third and final ball—aye, the tiny treasure remained safe in his pocket. The prince straightened to his full height and nodded to his reflection.

His dreams had been full of their dances, her shy glances, and trembles at his touch. Then it changed to a nightmare…her slipping away, and he being unable to find her. He never saw her again.

A scowl crossed his brow at the thought. He was the prince and always got what he wanted. And he had not desired anything as much as this mysterious maid, no, princess, to be his wife. This gem would not escape his grasp, no matter what his dreams might warn of. (And the queen his mother had been very uneasy when she counseled him. She turned her gaze too often up to read the stars than fulfilling his needs, poor mother.) He loved the lady, with her eyes like the color of the grey-green ocean…

Ah…there perhaps lay the root of his foul mood. He had been displeased during the course of the morn when he realized that ugly simpleton in the kitchen – forgetting yet again her place by insolently pleading with _him_ to not be angry with her request – had the same eyes as his lady. It was an insult that two such different creatures should have anything in common. The prince may have even voiced his displeasure, it was hard to recall now, possibly cursing the scullery maid for stealing his lady's eyes, and promising if he ever laid eye on her again she would regret it deeply.

The prince shook his head, banishing the memory and continued his slow circling of the ballroom, his stern expression keeping his guests a respectful distance back. Always he kept the doorway somewhere in his line of vision. He retrieved his pocket watch to check the time. Midnight.

He had waited and watched for his lady for hours.

_She will come,_ he thought. _She __**will**__ come to me._

_She didn't say goodbye, disappearing like the morning mist, turning away from the prince…__**again**_, a mocking voice sounding eerily like his snobbish younger brother pointed out.

An unfamiliar sensation pricked the prince's confidence. The prince's back stiffened and his expression grew grim.

Why would she not come tonight? He had made his regard very clear to her. He did not abuse her or show her disdain. On the contrary, he had danced every dance with his lady, had not cast a second glance towards any of his other pretty guests. Did she doubt him? Was she playing coy for some reason? Was there someone else?

He snorted at the last unexpected possibility. Of course there was not. None could compare to him! He was hers, and she was his. In her he had found his happily ever after.

The pocket watch read one o'clock. Impatience and frustration swirled around the prince.

_She is worth it_, he promised himself.

THE END

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Author's Note: I recently was reading different variations of _Broomthrow, Brushthrow, Combthrow,_ and was really bugged by how the princess contentedly married the less-than-kind prince. This story is my way of handling my frustration.


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